


This clumsy living

by appleseed



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles POV, Erik reads too, F/M, London also features, M/M, Mild Smut, book porn, overuse of quotes, so mild it's hardly even there, still have powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleseed/pseuds/appleseed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles muses on the nature of mutation and his newly-established relationship with Erik.</p>
<p>Or; the one where Charles owns a bookshop and Erik is a detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This clumsy living

**Author's Note:**

> This is for **pocky_slash** , who went looking for some newly-established fic and couldn't find any. My thanks are due to **Clocks** , who pointed out my mistakes in the draft I sent her (any mistakes left are entirely mine), and to her partnership with **Clear_Liqueuer** , which never ceases to make me laugh. Thanks are also due to **afrocurl** , **Clarounette** , **ninemoons42** and **professor** for helping me work out some issues with the plot.

"This clumsy living that moves lumbering

as if in ropes through what is not done,

reminds us of the awkward way the swan walks.

 

And to die, which is the letting go

of the ground we stand on and cling to every day,

is like the swan, when he nervously lets himself down

into the water, which receives him gaily

and which flows joyfully under

and after him, wave after wave,

while the swan, unmoving and marvelously calm,

is pleased to be carried, each moment more fully grown,

more like a king, further and further on".   - Rainer Maria Rilke

*

The bells above the door rang merrily as Charles pushed it open, chiming out their little tune and, as ever, bringing a smile to Charles’s face. Pulling the key out of the lock, Charles pocketed it and pushed the door open even further to let himself in. His smile grew wider as the smell of books and pages and ink wafted round him.

“Hello, my friends,” he murmured, closing the door behind him, glad to be out of the chilly air, and reaching for the lightswitch, flicking it on. His sister called him sentimental, with his habit of speaking to the books as though they were alive, and he had toned it down in deference to her, but he had never quite been able to break the small habit of greeting them every morning. Maybe he was becoming sentimental at the advanced age – according to his sister - of thirty one.

He deposited his bag, coat and scarf in a heap on the desk and went out the door at the back of the shop into Hank’s workshop, flicking on both the light and the kettle. His morning cup of tea was a sacred ritual that no-one interrupted, not even Raven, and he needed it today more than ever, what with being up most of the night talking to Erik.

Charles’s smile grew even wider when the kettle whistled loudly, announcing that it was time for tea.

*

“Try me. You’re allowed to laugh if I get it wrong.”

“Hmmm.”

“Please, Erik?”

“Very well, Charles, here’s one. ‘I've always thought tests are a gift. And great tests are a great gift. To fail the test is a misfortune. But to refuse the test is to refuse the gift, and something worse, more irrevocable, than misfortune.’"

“Seems rather appropriate, given our conversation earlier.”

“I thought you’d appreciate that. Where’s it from?”

“ _Shards of Honor_ by Lois McMaster Bujold.”

“Gold star, Charles.

*

As Charles pottered around the shop, brushing away fairly non-existent dust and moving books around, cup of tea to hand at all times, he let his mind run away from him, thinking about the path his life had taken that led to him being here. He’d had such plans to change the world as a young man, his boundless optimism not dimmed by the way his mother and stepfather had treated him and Raven. Only when he was accepted into Oxford to read English Literature, determined to teach and shape young minds about mutant acceptance through the medium of the books that he loved, did he realise that the world wouldn’t let him change it, and it was quite happy being the way it was.

Pro-mutant legislation might have eased the way, if there had been any. As it was, the anti-mutant protests in central London every summer for eight years in a row, influenced by – among others, it was rumoured – some rather high-ranking cabinet ministers, convinced all politicians that this was something they could win votes over, and each new government brought in increasingly stringent registration policies for anyone identifying as a mutant. Consequently, Charles found himself with a piece of paper that stated he couldn't work with anyone who wasn't a mutant (ironic, given Charles's mutation) and therefore without any prospect of a teaching job or a way of supporting his sister, and the dreams that had at one time seemed entirely within the bounds of possibility were just castles in the sky.

The bookshop had happened by accident. Charles had taken shelter in the doorway of a rather run-down looking shopfront one wet day, and after peering through the windows, decided to ring the landlord on a whim to ask about renting it. At the time he had no idea what for, but its faded charm had struck a chord with him, and, after learning the rent was much cheaper than he’d expected, took it. It wasn’t until Raven had told him off for the hundredth time about the sheer numbers of books lying around his flat which she tripped over with alarming regularity that the germ of an idea took root, and a couple of months later, “Xavier's Home For Wild Books” opened to the general public.

Raven had christened the shop, not dreaming that Charles would take her seriously. It still made her laugh, but she declined Charles's help when she needed a name for the tea shop she set up next door, which became "Mystical Teas". In time, their joint enterprise had yielded profit of a number of different kinds – financial independence, friendships (and in Raven's case, relationships) and a growing awareness that though they led a small life, they had the chance to be part of something greater. Charles became well-known as a kind of figurehead among mutants, someone willing to help them if they ever needed it, and could debate with the most aggressive anti-mutant politician in the country without losing the respect of other people. _Newsnight_ loved having him on, if only to stir up both general debate and the tempers of the viewers.

Which is precisely how, in an indirect way, he came to meet a man by the name of Erik Lehnsherr.

*

“I have another one for you.”

“Go on.”

“’It is attitude, not years, that condemns one to the ranks of the Undead.’”

“That’s easy. _Cloud Atlas_ by David Mitchell. It made me cry.”

“Of course it did.”

*

Thinking about Erik made Charles beam broadly. It was in this state of almost maniacal cheerfulness that Hank and Raven found him two cups of tea and an hour later. Hank looked at him and decided to say nothing; Raven, typically, had no such compunction.

“Did you get laid last night?”

Charles spluttered the mouthful of tea he’d just imbibed back into the cup.

“No!” he protested, scandalised, “I did not!”

“Huh. Could’ve sworn you did. The smiling is just creepy otherwise,” was Raven’s typically forthright, dry response.

Charles loved his sister dearly, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to strangle her at regular intervals. He glanced down at his front, hoping he’d put something on that absorbed tea without making any noticeable stains. Fortunately, when dressing with his eyes closed and his head in the clouds, he’d managed to pull on a navy knitted jumper, and thus a minor disaster was averted. Still, there was a rumble of worry radiating off Raven that even non-telepaths would have noticed. Her worry seemed to be Erik-flavoured.

Charles pushed off the edge of the sink where he’d been leaning, set his cup down in it and crossed the three-foot-long distance to where Raven was standing in the doorway to the main shop, her hands on her hips. Hank was nowhere to be seen. Charles pulled at one of Raven’s hands gently until she let him take it in his and said quietly, “What’s wrong, love? What are you worrying about?”

Raven sighed, the fight draining out of her. Her golden eyes glinted with concern. “I’m just looking out for you,” she answered him quietly, dropping her gaze to the floor, obviously unwilling to say something but feeling the need to all the same.

 “I'm all grown up now, you know,” Charles teased her gently. “I can look out for myself.” Raven shook her head, glorious red hair waving as she did so. “Can you, though?” she asked him, finally looking him in the eye. “I read something about you yesterday in the _Times_ , about you being a true leader for mutants to look up and be inspired by? That right there paints a target on your back. What about the people upstairs who need our help?” Charles remained quiet, letting his sister speak. “Have you thought about what happens if you move in with Erik and he doesn’t come home some day? He’s a detective, and a mutant. That makes him a target too. And if people know that you’re with him? That makes the target even bigger, for both of you.”

“Raven, it’s fine. You know what his mutation is, don’t you? He can sense metal all the time, he knows how to look out for himself,” Charles told her, trying to impress on her how fine the whole situation was. “So do I. I’ve been looking out for you for years now.”

She made an impatient noise. “ _I know that_ ,” she half-hissed at him. “I’m asking if you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Charles frowned. “Of course I do,” he said. “Why are you being like this? I thought you’d be happy for me, you were the one who told me I needed to date someone before I became a fossil.”

Raven pulled her hand out of Charles’s grasp with a huff of disgust, turned on her heel and walked away. Her thoughts were angry and worried, and he sighed quietly, watching her vanish through the double doors into the tea room that she ran with an iron fist. It would be incredibly churlish of him to remind his sister that she’d done an alarming amount of smiling and boasting when she and Hank first got together, despite the worries he had expressed to her, but knew that somehow, to Raven at least, this wouldn’t be the same thing at all.

*

“Got any more to test me on?”

"As a matter of fact, I do. ‘The one thing you can't trade for your heart's desire is your heart.’"

“Hmmm. I think that depends on the heart’s desire in question.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s from _Memory_ , written by Lois McMaster Bujold. You like her, don’t you, Erik?”

“She knows how to wield a pen, Charles.”

*

_Before_

The problem with being one of the world’s most powerful telepaths was that everyone automatically expected you to be omniscient too. That explained in part why, when the window of the shop was broken and the whole front sprayed in graffiti, the first question Hank asked him when Charles arrived at the scene of the crime was, “do you know how this happened?”

Charles did _not_ know how it had happened, but he could guess. The brick lying inside the shop and the empty tin of spray paint, combined with the anti-mutant tenor of the graffiti, certainly gave a few clues as to the point of the vandalism. Charles thought it very magnanimous of him to not get angry about the whole situation, knowing how anger got him nowhere and changed nothing, but simply called the police to report the crime, and then Darwin, to ask for a little help boarding up the window until the insurers coughed up enough money for a new one.

Darwin came much quicker than the police did, as cheerful and willing than ever. Charles wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done to deserve the kind of loyalty that Darwin and the other members of their clan of waifs and strays demonstrated so often, but he was grateful for it all the same. Each had their own individual, wonderful, mutation, and Charles loved to do nothing more than teach them how to use it in so many different ways, or talk to them about their experiences (Logan, for instance, was a mine of information about everything that had happened in the last two centuries). Not bad for a bookseller, he often thought.

Even if that same bookseller was a “filhty mutie”.

(Charles took issue with the appalling spelling more than the actual sentiment.)

Most of the brushing and cleaning done, Charles was on the mezzanine floor of the shop when the door opened, heralded by the tinkle of the wind chimes hung over the door. His absorption in his task was such that he didn’t notice the new occupant of the shop until their mind shifted into the kind of gear that even the most unobservant telepath couldn’t fail to notice.

It was like ringing a bell in a quiet room. Charles’s head snapped up from the floor he was brushing, his mind flexing outward to feel more of the shining, marvellous person that had attracted his attention, wanting to explore the depths of their mind. He reined his mutation in with an effort – he hadn’t even been introduced to the person, it would be unforgivably rude to go digging around in their head.

Dropping his brush with a thump, he took off for the spiral staircase leading to the bottom floor. “Ha-ank?” he called as he clattered down the wrought iron steps. Hank’s answering shout his workshop was muffled, but Charles continued anyway. “Who just came in? I felt the most marvellous mind and I think they might be….a mutant.” He tailed off on reaching the bottom of the stairs to see all the paperclips and drawing pins that had previously been on his desk now dancing in mid-air, swirling gracefully in an ever-changing pattern.

Charles’s mouth fell open. It was the most beautiful example of a mutation he’d ever seen. The control required to do such a thing was extraordinary. He moved a little closer, into the middle of the shop, and the pins spun even faster.

“You’d be correct,” said a voice behind him. Charles whirled round, the dancing stationery momentarily forgotten. As soon as he caught sight of the owner of the voice and mutation that had captured his attention, Charles slammed his shields up as quickly and firmly as he could. This man was gorgeous, breathtakingly so – tall and thin, with auburn hair and green-grey eyes that were currently focused on him.

In other words, Charles’s long-dormant libido popped up to point out, sex on legs.

“That’s extraordinary,” Charles breathed, letting a shy smile widen over his face.

The man waved his hand through the air, a graceful motion, and Charles could hear the pins and paperclips dropping back onto the surface of his desk without having to turn round. “I’m Erik Lehnsherr,” Sex On Legs said, pulling something out of his pocket. “I’m the detective sent by the Met to investigate your – problem,” he went on, simultaneously showing Charles his ID and pointing his head in the direction of the broken window.

Charles stuck his hand out, and Erik shook it firmly. “I’m Charles Xavier,” he said, still a little breathless. Erik smirked, letting go of Charles’s hand, sliding his ID back into his pocket.

“I know,” he replied. “You’ve made a name for yourself among our kind.”

Charles’s heart absolutely did not skip a beat (or three) at that.

“Speaking of that, what kind of kinesis do you have?”

“I can control metal,” was the reply, aptly demonstrated by the coins in Charles’s pocket and the watch on his wrist suddenly moving as if of their own volition.

“How wonderful,” Charles responded, shaking his head in amazement.

Erik’s gentle smile was as warm as the sun.

*

“What about this one? ‘Show me a man or a woman alone and I'll show you a saint. Give me two and they'll fall in love. Give me three and they'll invent the charming thing we call 'society'. Give me four and they'll build a pyramid. Give me five and they'll make one an outcast. Give me six and they'll reinvent prejudice-‘”

“Erik, I don’t think-“

“’Give me seven and in seven years they'll reinvent warfare. Man may have been made in the image of God, but human society was made in the image of His opposite number, and is always trying to get back home.’”

“That’s a very negative view of the world.”

“But a fair one, Charles, you can’t deny that. You’ve seen how we’re treated by humans.”

“Not everyone’s like that.”

“Regardless, where’s the quote from?”

“It’s from _The Stand_. Stephen King.”

“Correct.”

“I don’t think I want to play this game any more.”

*

After inspecting the damage to the shop, taking statements from everyone and talking to Charles about previous incidents like this one, Erik left, but not before Charles learned that he was German and had transferred to the Met six months ago from Interpol in Berlin, that Erik’s parents were dead, that Erik had always wanted to come to London but had only allowed himself to do it once he had brought all the wrath he could muster down on his corrupt boss. Erik also happened to say that not only had he heard of Charles but had been meaning to visit the bookshop in the hope of meeting him; only a sudden influx of mutant-related crime had prevented him from doing so.

More than that, he seemed to know all about the sanctuary Charles and Raven had built using the top two floors of both shops, knocking down the walls in between the buildings to create a warren of rooms and living spaces. Any mutant could stay here, regardless of their mutation or circumstances. Erik knew of a couple who had been in trouble and mysteriously disappeared, despite his best efforts to find them and offer his help; after being assured of Erik’s discretion, Charles told him that he had taken them in and looked after them until he was certain they were safe.

Above all, Erik gave Charles tacit permission to read his mind, as long as he didn’t look at anything to do with Erik’s cases. Charles couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that accompanied watching him leave through the front door of the shop. With a sigh, he turned back to his desk and plopped down in his seat _. I didn’t even get to ask him out for a drink_ , he thought, glancing down at the paperclips and pins on his desk.

When he realised that there was a pattern to the way they’d been left there, he started in delighted surprise. Erik had spelt out a message by unbending the paperclips into words; the message read “Charles any queries call me”. The brightly-coloured drawing pins had been arranged into a number that Charles copied down carefully with a grin.

Mutations really were quite wonderful.

He forced himself to wait three whole days before he called Erik, who sounded pleased to hear from him. Charles stammered his way through some rather forced-sounding small talk about the investigation into the broken-window-and-graffiti-incident before blurting out, “Would it be unprofessional for you to have a drink with me?”

Erik chuckled quietly. “Possibly,” he said.

“Oh.” Charles couldn’t help the disappointment in his voice.

“It’s also possible,” Erik went on, “that I don’t care about professionalism, at least in this case. I wanted to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh!”

“Shall we say tonight at eight? Only if you’re free, of course, after you close up for the evening.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Excellent. I’ll meet you outside your shop.”

With a lighter heart than he’d felt in a long time, Charles hung up, and spent the rest of the afternoon fretting about his hair, his clothes, his ability to rein his telepathy in around Erik, how Erik felt about telepaths as potential partners…. It had been so long since he’d been out on a date with anyone, he wasn’t quite sure that he was ready for it, even with someone as attractive and interesting as Erik.

There was very little work done that afternoon.

*

“One more. Please?”

“….alright.”

“’All grown-ups were once children... but only few of them remember it.’”

“Oh, that’s from _The Little Prince_! I’m very fond of that book.”

“And the author, Charles?”

“Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

“I think you should get a reward for getting them all correct.”

“What did you have in mi-mmmph.”

…

“I like your reward system, Erik.”

*

Charles’s favourite part of the shop was up on the mezzanine floor, where there was a table and chair tucked in between two bookcases behind the railings lining the upper level. The table, redwood inlaid with mother of pearl, had been in his flat when he first moved in; Darwin had cleaned it and re-varnished it, but not to factory-floor perfection, meaning it had retained its character. The chair was a genuine antique, Charles was sure, high-backed and narrow with faded upholstery and a sagging seat that he was rather fond of.

Sitting up here with a cup of tea in a china cup, Charles could cocoon himself away for a little while and read. Or, if he was feeling up to it, he could let his mind loose on the world outside. He liked to test his limits, feel out where his range was and push himself further. He set himself tasks – simple things, like finding out what any number of people had for dinner the night before, for instance, or what they thought of the latest cinema releases – and then tried to do it better than he had before, making sure that people never knew he was even there.

Erik had asked him, not long after they met, how far away he’d reached out with his mind, and Charles had told him about the man sitting on a wall in a field in Galway, watching sheep and eating ham sandwiches. Erik had laughed then, his eyes warm, and Charles, intoxicated at the sight, had told him about the conversation he’d had with the man. He had been a kind, warm-hearted man under the impression that Charles was an angel or something similarly supernatural, and the mental chat Charles had had with him had been wonderful, and cheered him up on a bad day. The argument with Raven was producing similar ill-feeling, so he made himself a cup of tea and stomped upstairs, shouting instructions at Hank to mind the shop.

Sitting down and leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, letting his mind stretch outwards, slowly and surely. Raven was studying a very beautiful woman from her vantage point at the little counter in the teashop, thinking about imitating her. Hank was in his workshop, wrestling with a dilemma over the binding of a book he was repairing.

Charles let his mind drift further out, to the occupants of Upstairs. Logan was concentrating on pouring himself a drink, greeting him with an amused _what’s up Chuck?_ when he felt Charles’s mind brush past him. Sean’s thoughts were quiet as he composed a new song on his guitar; Ororo was sleeping, dreaming about a thunderstorm, all light and noise and power; Alex and Darwin… oh, that was new, Charles thought with a blush.

He left Alex and Darwin alone and drifted out further, away from the shop and along New Row, down onto St. Martin’s Lane. Lunchtime was rarely quiet in this part of the city and there were so many active minds to pore over. Musicians and artists and dancers and bankers and shop assistants and dog walkers jostled for space on the streets. Charles reached out further, over the National Gallery and the tourists dancing in the fountain below Nelson’s column, over WaterlooBridge and beyond, through the whole city, the length of the Thames.

Further out Charles let his mind truly loose, feeling it bend and stretch and breathe as it flew over land and sea. Every mind was lit up like a beacon out at sea. It was glorious, the freedom his mutation afforded him; he still remembered his first taste of the true power of telepathy, and even now it still thrilled him.

Reluctantly, mindful of what over-exerting himself did to his body (and his sister), Charles began to pull his mind back, peeling it away slowly from the vast reaches of the earth he’d flown to. He had explained to Raven once that doing it too quickly produced a similar sensation to the “bends” that divers experienced, something he’d learned after a massive migraine had debilitated him for five days in a row. Charles pulled his mind in the last little bit and came back to his present surroundings with a slight bump.

He rubbed at his eyes and stood up, shaking his legs in an attempt to get the blood flowing back into them. The tea on the table was cold now, he noted, but he drank it anyway, forcing it down his parched throat. His legs felt stiff, and while he reached down to rub them, a buzzing noise downstairs made him jump.

On closer investigation, once he’d hauled himself down the spiral staircase, his phone was blinking with a message from Erik. _Did I feel you earlier?_ it read, and Charles couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. Erik seemed to have an affinity with telepathy that was rare in most other mutants. He had told Charles about his friend, Emma, who was a telepath and had a theory that something about Erik’s control over metal meant he could detect telepathy on some very basic level.

Charles had so many secrets to keep, but they were usually other people’s, not his own. Now, like a golden thread running through the grey fabric of everyday life, he had something to think about during the day and dream about at night; Erik had, over the past couple of months, made himself so much a part of his life that it was impossible to imagine life without him (and even the barest hint of a thought along those lines was enough to send a cold chill running through Charles).

Erik understood him in ways that Hank or Raven didn't; he understood how it felt to be lonely, he understood what it meant to want to make a place for himself in the world and about how frustrating it was to see the bigger picture and realise that everyone else could only see the smaller details. Erik was his match in every way, his intellectual equal, a man as passionate as himself and someone who, Charles had come to realise, he could talk to about anything and everything. As a telepath, he was more self-aware than most people, and recognised that there were things about him that were ugly and unattractive, but Charles had begun to think that perhaps Erik might not mind learning about these things.

The concerns that Raven had about his relationship with Erik were nothing compared to the ones Charles had. That bigger picture few others could see was a frightening one, and Charles had painted himself in bright enough colours that everyone one could see him. There were battle lines to be drawn in the future, between those who accepted mutants as part of society and those who didn't, and Charles didn't want to be the one to draw them - even knowing all the while that he probably would be.

But, as he was beginning to see, he didn't have to do it alone any more.

*

“I have another one, if you’d like another reward for a correct answer?”

“Oh yes please.”

“’A man that flies from his fear may find that he has only taken a short cut to meet it.’"

“That’s one of my favourites. It’s Tolkien, from _The Children of Húrin_.”

“You seem very eager.”

“I’d like another kiss from you.”

“I suppose I can do that.”

“Only if you want to, Erik.”

“Oh, I want a lot of things, Charles.”

*

_Now_

The argument with Raven left Charles unsettled all day. He wanted so desperately for his sister to understand how much Erik was coming to mean to him, but he couldn’t really explain it to himself, never mind to anyone else. Whatever words he used to articulate how he felt, the simple fact remained that for the first time possibly ever, Charles felt as though he’d found someone to match him. For a telepath as powerful as him, it was a rare thing.

Charles let Hank go home early and closed the shop up himself, wandering towards Charing Cross station in a fog of annoyed thoughts. It was beginning to rain as he trudged home from his stop, still bothered by Raven’s words, so it was a rather damp Charles who slowed to a halt outside the front door of his flat. When he tried to put his key in the lock, it moved by itself, just as a voice said, “Penny for your thoughts, Charles?”

In surprise, Charles peered into the shadows of the corridor that ran either side of his doorway, only to come face to face with the subject of his thoughts.

“Erik!”

“Hello, Charles,” was Erik’s easy greeting as he stepped out of the gloom. He appeared to be holding a bottle of wine.

“To what do I owe the pleasure? I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“I can’t miss you during the day and want to surprise you?”

Charles sighed and shook his head. “Forgive me, Erik, it’s been a long day.”

Erik’s eyes were warm as he stepped closer, murmuring, “But getting better, I hope?” He ducked his head to kiss Charles, who didn’t respond quite as quickly as he should have. Erik pulled back, his eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Charles shook his head again, trying to rid himself of the cloud he’d been labouring under all day. He dropped everything he was carrying on the floor and reached for Erik’s face, pulling him down so he could kiss him properly. Erik’s arms curled around his back, mindful of the wine.

A few pleasant minutes later, they parted, and Erik asked the question again. “What happened today?” Charles, in the middle of retrieving his bags and keys, looked up and frowned before replying, “We’ll talk about it after dinner.” Erik nodded and unlocked the door with a flick of his finger with a slight smile on his face.

Dinner was not the grand affair Charles would have liked it to be – now that Raven lived full-time at the sanctuary, there was no need to make much effort with dinner - but Erik thought that heated-up, day-old lasagne was a feast all the same. They talked about small things, safe topics that Erik seemed to instinctively know would suffice until Charles could explain what was bothering him - and wasn’t that something to wonder at, someone who kept things simple until he could talk about something important? Charles had never met anyone quite like Erik.

After dinner, and the dishes, including some good-natured splashing of each other with the dishwater and some swatting with the teatowel, Erik poured them both another glass of wine and joined Charles where he had flopped onto the squishy couch in what was optimistically called the living room. He handed Charles a glass and settled into a comfortable pose, his elbow brushing against Charles’s curled-up knees.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know,” Erik said softly after a minute of listening to the city outside, it’s soundtrack of traffic and trains and planes quieter now but no less distinctive.

“I know,” Charles replied. He let his mind curl around Erik’s for a moment, basking in its brightness, and showed him that Charles _did_ feel that he could discuss anything with him. Erik smiled and said, “then what’s bothering you?” Charles swirled his glass round for a minute, collecting his thoughts, before answering, “my sister said something to me today that… well, gave me pause for thought.”

He stopped, prompting Erik to say, “Go on.”

“Well, Raven thinks I don’t know what I’m getting into. With you, I mean. She thinks I’m a target already because I’m so outspoken, and being with me means you’ll be one too.”

His voice was even quieter as he went on, “And she asked me what I would do if we moved in together, and you didn’t come home one day because… you couldn’t.”

Erik leaned over to set his glass on the floor and then shuffled closer to Charles, resting his elbow lightly on Charles’s leg. He looked intently at Charles for a long moment before saying, “Your sister cares for you a great deal.” Charles nodded, and Erik went on, “I care for you a great deal too, so I won’t lie to you. My job is… tough. But I’ve been doing it for a long time and I know how to look after myself, I promise.”

“You of all people,” Erik went on, “should know that our mutations give us advantages that ordinary humans don’t have. But I could die tomorrow, in my sleep or… getting hit by a bus, I don’t know. All of us will die eventually, but that shouldn’t mean we’re afraid to live a little.”

Erik wedged himself tighter into the space between Charles and the couch, cupping Charles’s cheek with one long-fingered hand. “And I want to live, with you,” he said, his mind tapping against Charles’s. Charles dived in, just as Erik leaned in to kiss him.

Erik’s mind was glorious, all layers and depths and hidden corners, made up of all the things that made him who he was; memories, errant thoughts, firm ideas. He laid it all bare for Charles’s scrutiny while kissing him intently, exploring his mouth and leaving Charles breathless.

Later, Charles would never be sure if it was the wine, or his tiredness, or simply Erik, but he shuffled round on the couch until he could straddle Erik’s lap and draped his arms round his neck, hardly even drawing breath to keep on kissing Erik. They had both decided to take things slowly – for the sake of Charles’s control of his telepathy, and because Erik wanted to “do things right” – but this was most definitely escalating things.

Erik didn’t seem to mind, judging by the way his arms slid around Charles’s waist and pulled him even closer and the contented tenor of his thoughts, now fizzing with possibility. They spent long minutes exploring each other's mouths; Charles broke away first, completely breathless, head spinning, but Erik wouldn't let him go far, chasing his mouth for another kiss.

"We should..." Charles began faintly, hardly able to maintain any kind of higher brain function when most of his brain cells had been dissolved by Erik - the same Erik who was now looking at him with lust-darkened eyes, swollen lips and a heaving chest. Charles wanted to go back to the kissing and touching, but his recently-revived conscience wouldn't let him.

"We should?" Erik repeated, running one hand down Charles's thigh.

"Stop. We should stop. Please."

"Then you need to get off me," Erik replied, his tone light in contrast to the way his gaze kept flicking between meeting Charles's eyes and watching his mouth.

Charles scrambled backwards off Erik's lap and onto his feet, still breathless and wanting Erik more than anything, but knowing that his grasp on his mutation was too tenuous for him to be able to control it. He wasn't used to being so thoroughly undone in such a short space of time (a slight on his previous lovers that he didn't really mind) and Erik was simply too damned attractive for his own good.

Charles rubbed a shaking hand over his chest, calming himself but still looking at Erik. When his breathing settled, he said quietly, "I'm sorry."

Erik shook his head and stood up, reaching for Charles's hands and pulling him close again. The sincerity in his eyes made Charles's heart stutter when he said, "I want everything with you, Charles, everything. But I can wait. When you're ready, we can talk about what we _both_ want, hmmm?" Charles nodded and let go of Erik's hands to wrap his arms round his waist instead, loving the way Erik felt like this.

After a pause, Charles said, slightly muffled by Erik's chest, "Will you stay over?" He cut off Erik's protest by continuing, "just so I can hold you while I fall asleep."

Erik sighed and said, "honestly, Charles, you'll do anything to get me into bed, won't you?" and Charles laughed, tugging at Erik's hand and pulling him out of the living room and into the bedroom, still chuckling. He made no effort to change into pyjamas, simply kicked off his shoes and socks, yanked his jeans and jumper off and dived into the bed, burrowing under the quilt while he waited for Erik.

Once he too was divested of his shoes and socks, Erik pulled off his jeans and slid in beside Charles, clad in his boxers and t-shirt. His long limbs settled in the bed and Charles had no compunction in rolling onto his side and pulling Erik close enough for him to rest his head on Erik’s chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat under his ear.

“Some day," Charles said aloud, voicing something that he'd given a lot of thought to since he'd first met Erik, "I’ll inherit my father’s property. It’s quite large and I was thinking of turning it into a bigger version of what we have over the shop. Maybe a school too.”

Erik’s voice was drowsy as he answered, “that’s a good idea.”

Charles swallowed against the lump in his throat at how contented Erik sounded, being here with him, and said, “I’d like you to be a part of it, if you’ve no objections.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Charles,” Erik murmured, shifting in the bed and brushing his lips over Charles’s temple.

_Sleep_ , his mind whispered, and Charles did just that.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The translation of Rilke's "The Swan" comes via Tom Hiddleston's Twitter.  
> 2\. _Newsnight_ is a popular political magazine/debte show that goes out on BBC2 after the evening news.  
>  3\. For the purposes of this fic, and because he's the devil incarnate, Erik's corrupt boss is Sebastian Shaw.


End file.
